Foreign Affairs
by funluvr
Summary: A common civilian finds herself in an UberPOOL with Hillary Clinton and from there, things get wild.


Foreign Affairs

5pm. I gather my belongings and silently exit the Gerber Baby Food test center. I have been working 9-6 every day for the past three weeks without a day off. I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and place the strap perfectly between my breasts.

I call an UberPOOL and wait anxiously on the curb. "Abduhl is on his way," my phone reads. I sit on a nearby bench and smile. The weather is satisfying. A Toyota Camry pulls up. License plate ending in 800TC.

"Yes, that's the one. That is Abduhl," I whisper softly. I enter the vehicle.

"Tabitha?" Abduhl asks. He knows my name. I feel my vagina wiggle.

"Yes, that is me." I take a deep breath and start to fan my coochie. At this point, I realize I am not alone in the Toyota Camry. UberPOOL catches me so off guard sometimes. I cease to fan my clitoris and introduce myself.

"I'm Tabitha," I say, offering her the hand I had previously used to touch my mystical fold.

"Hillary Rodham Clinton," she says, taking my hand and shaking it gingerly. How bizarre, I thought. Why did this woman just tell me all three of her names?

"It's nice to meet you," I said, looking into her deep, delicate blue eyes.

"What do you do for a living?" she asked, placing her small, frail hand on my thigh. Normally, I would find this thigh touching to be strange, but I liked it this time.

"I taste test Gerber baby food to make sure it will taste right for the babies." She nodded her head and looked into my eyes, her hand still warming my thigh.

"What you do for this country is truly honorable, and I thank you," she said with such sincerity. "Would you like to take a selfie with me?"

"Okay," I responded, although I was not sure why she extended this offer to me. I took out my phone and took a picture.

"Nice," she said awkwardly with a smirk. She's so cute when she gets awkward. We have just met, but I can already point out her most redeeming qualities. Her hand returns to my thigh. I like this. She likes it as well. I feel my lovebox become moist. At this moment I want nothing more than to see what is underneath her ultra chic pantsuit. I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to rip it off and see her eloquent naked body. I imagine it to look something like cinnamon roll dough when it first pops out of the cylindrical Pillsbury container before it is sliced into smaller segments to be later cooked to a delicious, cinnamony perfection. I have always loved cinnamon rolls, and today was not an exception. I wanted nothing more to discover her deliciously spicy-sweet insides.

"Tabitha, this is your destination," Abduhl said as my entire hand was emerged in my bearded taco.

"One destination, please," Hillary said with a wink. Abduhl graciously complied.

We rolled up to a large building just west of Central Park. I retracted my hand from my sausage wallet and de-ruffled my skirt. A man with white gloves opened my door and offered me his hand to help me out of the car. Thank goodness for the gloves, haha.

Hillary led the way as we walked inside the exquisite lobby. A plethora of men in suits with sunglasses lined the hallway, but I didn't think anything of it. We got on the elevator and she pushed the button to go to the penthouse. Wow, this woman must be loaded. At the thought of this, my love juice began to come pouring out. She wiped it off the floor with an embroidered Sham-wow that she pulled out of her anal cavity. I was wondering why she walked so stiffly, and now I knew why. Hillary Rodham Clinton keeps a secret Sham-wow in her buttocks.

The elevator door opened into a beautifully furnished penthouse apartment and a white-haired man was on the couch fornicating with another young woman.

"Hello, I'm Tabitha," I said as his pale derrière bounced up and down.

"Ignore him," Hillary said to me. "Come this way." I followed her down a beautiful hallway and into a bedroom. She lit a candle and turned off the lights. "Are you wet?" she asked me.

"Very," I responded. "Are you?"

"No," she replied honestly. "There is only one way that I can effectively reach orgasm." She took off her clothing. I was right about the cinnamon roll dough. She crawled onto the bed, her bosoms sagging as beautifully as any bosom could.

"How can I get you wet?" I asked.

"Repeat after me," she said. "You're going to be the president of the United States." An odd request, in my opinion. But I decided to comply, because I could not let this cinnamon roll go uneaten any longer.

"You are going to be the president of the United States," I whispered in her ear. At that point, I heard a rumbling, which I am assuming was similar to the rumbling that the people of Pompeii heard before Vesuvius erupted.

"Say it again," she said, gasping for air.

"Uh, you're going to be the president of the United States." At that point, Mount Vesuvius erupted, and I found myself drowning in this woman's crotch sauce.

We sexed for three consecutive days. Every time I called her Madame President or sang the star spangled banner, she became multi-orgasmic. I never knew such simple acts could be sexual triggers. I cannot wait to try it on my husband when I get home.


End file.
